


Picture Puzzle Pieces

by calrissian18



Series: Teen Wolf Coda [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Based on the Events of 3x22, Coda, Episode Related, Jealous Derek, M/M, Post Possession, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles swallowed his own discomfort so he could stand at Scott’s back.  He wished he didn’t notice the way Scott straightened up, standing taller, as soon as he did.</p><p> </p><p>3.22 Coda - because my brain is broken?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. Do not ask because I just genuinely do not know. I just know we're not going to see _any_ of this. Still. What even _is_ this, brain? So much ~disappoint right now. *pinches bridge of nose*

Reality came back slowly, memory came back slower and not without a wrenching effort.  It was like clawing his way out of a coffin buried under six feet of rubble.  Everything was hazy, his mind adjusting to this new, bright world, tunneling up through layers of history he hadn’t properly experienced.  He stared down at his own gauze-wrapped hands and felt like vomiting.  He remembered what those hands had done.   He remembered everything.

“ _Lydia_!”

Scott’s voice was getting more and more strained, more and more desperate and it felt like it was scraping against Stiles’ insides, shaving off thin layers of bone and making him wince.

He stared down at his knees and these weren’t his clothes.  This wasn’t his life.  It couldn’t be.

Scott’s voice broke, growing weaker and rawer with each time he called out for Lydia.  Stiles brought his covered hands up over his ears.  He couldn’t listen, couldn’t hear the pain he’d inflicted so sharply.

“Stiles.”

Stiles’ head jerked up.

Melissa was staring at him, biting her lower lip slightly like she couldn’t trust what she was seeing.  She watched him for a long moment and Stiles couldn’t look at her directly.  She jerked her chin in the direction of the door, in the direction of Scott’s fading cries.  She couldn’t possibly think that was a good idea.  Her eyebrows rose when he didn’t move.

Stiles let his body slip off the couch.  It wasn’t as fluid as he remembered.  His legs weren’t as steady and he wasn’t as sure in any of his movements.  There was so much thought behind it, and it still didn’t feel like his own.

“Scott.”  His voice was reedy, thin, broken in fundamental ways.  He hoped it never got fixed.  He should bear some scar from this, some reminder of the destruction he caused.

Scott turned away from the consuming darkness and blinked wide, wet eyes at him.  He swallowed hard, croaked, “She’s gone.”  He looked like the smallest nick would crumble him, he was so near to collapse.

Stiles didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to fix this when he was the cause of it.  “I’m sorry.”  It was nothing, impotent words from an impotent shell.

Scott let out a harsh breath and it took a moment for Stiles to realize it was a laugh, albeit a weak one.  His lips quirked up, gave it away, and he took a step closer and wrapped his arms around Stiles, growling almost fondly, “Shut up.”

Stiles stood, frozen.  His hands were still wrapped in costume that he didn’t fit and he couldn’t touch Scott with them, not after what he’d already done with them.  Scott’s fingers dug hard into his shoulder, his other hand had slipped under Stiles’ arms and was clenched over the top of his ribs.

Scott pressed his chin into the hollow of his neck, spoke into the jacket that didn’t belong to Stiles.  “What is it?”  He drew in a sharp breath.  “ _Stiles_?”

Stiles brought his hands up, carefully placed them on Scott’s back without pressure.  Scott dug harder with his uneven jaw and Stiles obediently tightened blunt fingers on him.  Scott felt breakable and Stiles seemed to be in the unique position to deliver the final blow.

Scott’s voice warbled and his hands rammed in harder, digging into Stiles’ skin.  “It is you, right?”  Wetness dragged against Stiles’ neck as Scott both tried to watch him and hide the look in his eyes, the water in them.  “Stiles,” he started, voice tight, “I can’t do it again, it has to be—”

“It’s me,” Stiles cut him off hard.  The more Scott had to  _push_  to get to him, the more defeated the slump of his shoulders.  Stiles had to start meeting him at least halfway, even when all he wanted to do was get as far away from the people he’d tortured as it was possible to go.

Scott didn’t seem to want to let go, dragging out this moment of victory rather than having to focus on the cost of it.

Stiles was the first to drop his hands.  Scott sniffed, backed away, stared at him for a quiet moment and walked back in with no sign of the breakdown he’d just seemed on the verge of.

Stiles eased carefully past Peter, realizing that out of the people in that room he had the most in common with the murderer.  He hung his head and Scott turned back to him, saying, “We have to find her,” like it was a plan and a plea in one, when it wasn’t properly either.

Stiles reached out, noticed Melissa’s understated flinch before she convinced her muscles to unclench.  He gripped Scott’s bicep determinedly and tried to say with all the conviction he felt, “Scott, you will.”  Because Scott was a real life hero.  If Stiles had learned anything from over a decade of reading about men in tights, those dudes always prevailed.

Scott’s face fell.  He picked it back up, an odd mix of defiance and hurt.  “You’re not gonna help?”

Stiles’ hand dropped away in surprise.  “You can’t actually want—”

Scott’s expression went hard.  “You really think I’m letting you out of my sight?” he challenged.  He squared his shoulders, went toe to toe with him.  “I’m not going to lose you again,” he snarled, eyes bleeding red and his gaze flicked down to the gauze wrapped loosely around Stiles’ neck, the jacket on his shoulders, as though reminding himself of the thing he’d lost and the thing that had taken it in the same sweep.

Stiles realized Scott wasn’t any different.  This was the same best friend he’d had right along.  Scott may not have changed, but Stiles felt warped beyond recognition.  He stared down at his hands and cleared his throat.  “I should still go,” he said weakly.  “I at least need to change out of—”

Scott nodded.  “I have some of your stuff upstairs.”

Stiles glanced up.  He hadn’t left anything at Scott’s so far as he knew.  What eventuality had he been preparing for with this?  Stiles half-expected someone would try to stop them but Scott’s fingertips brushed his back as he followed him up the stairs unimpeded.  Stiles stripped out of the jacket and shirt with vigor and tugged futilely at the gauze at his neck until there was a sore ring around it.

Scott shook his head quickly, rummaged around at his desk and came away with scissors.  “I got it,” he said softly, carefully slicing through this outer shell that had kept Stiles imprisoned so long.  He cut from the neck down, points tilted away from Stiles’ skin, occasionally brushing a thumb over the flesh revealed.  When he’d cleared Stiles’ torso his eyes pinched and Stiles followed the direction of them.

There was nothing there but an angry red scar across his middle that was clearly already in the process of healing, albeit now at a mortal rate.  Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing was gone in a week.  It wouldn’t last, not with how quickly it had sutured itself.

When he reached Stiles’ hip, he handed the scissors over, blunt end first, crossed his arms and stepped back, still staring at him.

Stiles lifted his eyebrows.

Scott shrugged unapologetically.  “I meant it about not letting you out of my sight.”

Stiles sighed, he could understand that.  He let the khakis fall, idly wondering why a psychotic fox that fed off chaos was dressed like a 1940s aviator.  He half-cut, half-tore himself out of the gauze covering the rest of him and found a pair of boxers and pants in the bottom of Scott’s closet.  They were his and Stiles tried to find some feeling in wearing them again, something soothing and definitive, but he still felt hollow, like a lifeless byproduct of the nogitsune.  His fingers fumbled with the catch of his jeans, his mind foggy, and arms folded around him again.

“Scott?”

Scott was pressed up against his back, hand flattening over the scar on his abdomen.  His fingers were cold, his skin prickling.  He was shaking.  “I’m sorry.”  Stiles stiffened.   Scott had nothing to apologize for, Stiles was the one who could make a career out of doing nothing but.  “You tried to tell me, the nightmares, the key, and I didn’t see it.”

Because of course the first thought would be, ‘he’s probably possessed.’  Stiles turned around so Scott could  _see_  him roll his eyes.  Scott didn’t let go of him, fingers tightening almost to the point of pain and he stared for a long time, trying to see past Stiles,  _into_  him.  Stiles knew he wanted to see it, that he was really behind the eyes, because Scott trusted him, trusted Stiles more than he trusted himself and Stiles couldn’t imagine how lost he’d been not having that.

He felt nails prick against his back while Scott’s eyes raked over his face, breathing hard.  He leaned in, pressed their foreheads together, fitted a hand with sharp claws over his neck and held him close.  Stiles lifted his hands, holding on to the bend of Scott’s elbows.  “Scott,” he said quietly.

Scott jerked back, the tilt of his head no longer easing closer, instead focusing his ear on the door.  His brow furrowed, clearly listening.  He looked back at Stiles.  “Hurry up and get dressed,” he said.

Stiles grabbed one of Scott’s shirts rather than his own, hoping it would make him feel more at home in his own skin.

It didn’t.

He took the stairs slowly, staring at Scott’s shoulder blades through his shirt from behind.  The sound of a safety clicking off made Stiles freeze and jerk his head up.  He stared down the barrel of Chris Argent’s gun, glad the banister was at his side as he fumbled for something to hold on to.

Scott didn’t hesitate, jumping the last few steps and roaring – all Alpha now.  “Put it down,” he snarled, words slurred and wild.

“ _That_  isn’t Stiles, Scott,” Chris said, words shaking, hand unsteady, tipping the gun in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles actually felt a bit of gratitude that it seemed to be so hard for him.  He swallowed, opening his mouth, and Deaton interrupted in that calming, infuriating voice he had.  “Actually, it is.  There are two separate entities using the same appearance now.   _That_  is Stiles, however there is also a Void Stiles using the disguise.”

“And he has Lydia,” Scott said firmly, the sideburns and fangs gone.

Chris lowered his gun, slowly clicking the safety back in place and Allison and Kira entered as soon as the stalemate was ended, supporting Isaac between them, his head lolling.  Derek followed, dragging a twin in each hand.  He threw them on the couch carelessly, his eyes finding Stiles’ as soon as he was rid of them.

Stiles looked away.

“What happened?” Scott asked, slipping back into the lead as though he was comfortable with it.  While Stiles didn’t doubt he was capable, he knew he wasn’t comfortable.  He’d been faking his way through all of this without having anyone to turn to and say so.

Stiles swallowed his own discomfort so he could stand at Scott’s back.  He wished he didn’t notice the way Scott straightened up, standing taller, as soon as he did.  He wished he could slink away, hole up somewhere and  _stop_ , but the nogitsune had kind of used up all the selfish cards he had.  He’d be there for Scott for as long as Scott needed him to be.

Chris jumped in, explaining about the flies, leading them all into the kitchen, away from the twins and Isaac who were bound to not look all that brilliant in the retelling.  Stiles flinched.  He didn’t need the explanation.  He could still feel the blade cutting jaggedly into his skin, tearing him open as though he was made of tissue paper.

He still followed because he knew no one really wanted him unaccounted for.  White noise roared in his ears as he passed the doorway, staring down at the spread of his fingers.

“Is it  _actually_  you?”

Stiles whipped his head up.  Derek was staring at him, leaning against the wall next to the doorframe, arms crossed and eyes pinched, the skin underneath was mottled and rubbery.  Stiles felt the constant stiffness of his muscles ease, relaxing for the first time since he’d got back control of them.  Maybe it was just that Derek was so broken that Stiles knew he didn’t have to pretend to be fixed around him.

He pitched his voice low.  It was perfectly audible but no one was listening to him apart from Derek.  “There’s not much left,” he huffed out a choked breath of air, an odd laugh, “but yeah.”

Derek watched him for a long moment, eyes narrowing.  “It’ll get easier,” he decided.

Stiles laughed that odd laugh again, shook his head.  “You can’t know that.”

Derek clenched his jaw, working it for a moment, and looked away.  “Even though it was wearing your face, it wasn’t wearing you,” he said.

Stiles stared at the side of his head but he didn’t look back and Scott finished explaining how the nogitsune had fooled them and taken off with Lydia.  Allison passed him on the way out to get to Isaac, offering Stiles a tight smile.  It hadn’t even seemed strained because she was wary around him.  All her concern was for Isaac and apparently none of the blame was for Stiles.

Stiles looked up to find Derek watching him with an almost smug expression.  He fell back a step and Derek grabbed his forearm and afforded it a light squeeze.  “Stiles,” he said gruffly, expression serious, “it’s good to see you.”

Stiles could practically _feel_  how true the sentiment was behind the words and he wasn’t getting enough air.  His lungs felt too small for his body and his chest constricted like a vise and he had to get away from this.  How was their forgiveness worse than their hatred?  The air outside was like ice and came in too sharply but the burn of it was reassuring somehow.

He let his legs give out beneath him, lowering himself onto the front step and dragging in deep lungfuls with his head between his knees.  He couldn’t do this.  He had no idea how to be comfortable in skin that no longer felt like his.

“Do you know where it would take her?”  Scott took the seat next to him, knee nudging up against Stiles’.  He clasped his hands together and waited.

When Stiles felt like he could breathe again, whole painful minutes later, he carefully shook his head.  He didn’t know it, hadn’t figured it out, hadn’t wanted to.  It was this alien thing that had no discernible reason and Stiles hated it.  Though he had learned something from it.  “I want it dead, Scott.”  Stiles watched his fingers fold into a fist and sneered.  “It’s walking around in my skin, it tried to kill my dad, it took pleasure in  _skewering_  you on a sword.  I want to kill it.  I want to  _feel_  it die.”  Stiles laughed, breathy, hoarse, twisted.  “They’re not unfamiliar urges.”

Scott covered Stiles’ fist with his hand, holding tight.  “I need you,” he said, unequivocal.  His eyes were bright.  “I need you to help me with this.  I’ve had to do this all on my own,” he bit into his lower lip and it’d been them together for so long that neither one of them knew how to do even the simplest of things alone.  And this was hardly that.  Scott exhaled harshly.  “I don’t know how to do any of it without you,” he said, echoing Stiles’ thoughts.

Stiles had envied it a little, felt bitter and hated himself for it, but now there was nothing but wonderment there.  Because Scott  _did_  know what he was doing.  He was a born leader.  He didn’t  _need_  Stiles, he  _could_  figure it on his own even if he didn’t believe it now.  But he  _wanted_  Stiles and it had taken Stiles a long time to realize that that was better.  His lips quirked to the side.  “You faked it well,” he said, almost grinning, brimming with pride – that this was his Alpha, that this was his best friend.  Stiles knew how to pick 'em.  “It was afraid of you, of the power you have.  It looked at you and it saw a proper Alpha.”  Stiles knew he didn’t have to say it for Scott to know that was the way Stiles looked at him, too.

His eyes glittered and Stiles wasn’t even all that surprised when Scott leaned in, hand on Stiles’ knee, and sucked Stiles’ lower lip into his mouth.  He kissed Stiles gently, like he was afraid he might cause another crack in the finish, and he didn’t pull away until he’d poured all his relief and desperation and want into the press of their mouths.

Stiles had felt it coming since up in Scott’s room, because they’d never be able to hold each other tight enough, say it intently enough, make it clear enough that all was forgiven and they were  _them_  again.

Scott pulled back by degrees, breathing far harder than the slow kiss had warranted and Stiles saw a jerk of movement behind them.

Derek was standing there, jaw tight and gaze caught somewhere between desolation and anger.  When he realized Stiles was staring back at him, he tipped his head in Stiles’ direction, clearly trying to shift his expression into something neutral but only managing to look somehow betrayed.  He stalked back inside without another exchange.

There was no way he would understand what that was, possibly ever.  Stiles sighed, staring down at his hands.  It hadn’t been about the kiss, it had been about what they were saying with it, but Derek had never experienced any sort of intimacy.  He had no idea how it worked and maybe, once upon a time, Stiles had entertained the idea of being the one to teach him.

Now there were too many pieces to pick up to even consider starting a new puzzle.

Maybe someday.  Stiles looked back towards the door, knowing Derek was somewhere inside licking wounds that he probably didn’t even understand how he’d gotten, and thought Derek might actually be the perfect person for ‘maybe someday.’  He smiled down at his own jagged fingernails.

They both had big pictures to complete before they could even begin to focus on the details.  Stiles didn't doubt it would be worth the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> You should want to hang out with me [here](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/). Mainly because I'm _awesome_.


End file.
